The Thing You Do
by Nienna Nir
Summary: Another Christmas, another trip to SHIELD Medical. Clint Barton is used to it by now, it's almost a holiday tradition at this point. The best part of waking up with an IV on Christmas Eve is the fact that Phil Coulson is always there.


The soft steady beep was the first thing to pierce his awareness, slow and low and lulling at the very periphery of his senses. He listened to its soothing cadence for a while, trying to place the sound. It was vaguely familiar and he found that confusing. He hadn't expected anything about death to feel familiar.

He continued to float for what felt like eternity, riding the peaceful waves of muted sensation. The second thing he noticed was a tingling in the tips of his fingers. _Fingers, wasn't that odd_? He'd expected this experience to be a bit more transcendent. It didn't bother him overmuch, he'd been used to disappointment in life, it seemed like par for the course now.

It was the smell of antiseptic that finally clued him in.

Clint Barton peeled his eyes open slowly and with keen effort, wincing against the bright afternoon sunlight that trickled in through the nearby window to burn his vision, reflecting off the screen of the heart monitor, its low beep increasing.

"I'm not dead," he rasped out through chapped lips.

"It's not for lack of trying," a dry, familiar voice answered. Clint's head felt like a lead brick fastened to his neck as he struggled to drag it around to the other side of the bed and he felt one corner of his mouth tug up in an amused smile. He paused, trying to force the other side to join in but for some reason it couldn't seem to be bothered to participate.

"I'm on the good drugs!" he announced happily, looking up into Phil Coulson's face.

"Yes," Phil answered stoically. "That's what happens when you fall off of buildings." He was wearing a foreboding expression that brokered no nonsense and broadcast its clear intent of stamping out as much of it as possible. Clint thought it was possibly the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"I jumped, sir," he corrected, his lopsided joy still evident on his face.

"That is, in no way, an improvement, agent," Coulson stated firmly.

"No," Clint conceded, his happiness undimmed. "but I'm kind of hung up on the not dead part, sir. Any maneuver that results in not dying is a successful one."

"I remember agreeing on that, yes," Phil sighed, rubbing his eyes. "But I did say I preferred operations that did not end in Medical."

"You can't have everything you want in life, Coulson," Clint pointed out. He knew that all too well. In fact, he'd even argue that the chances of having anything you wanted in life averaged out to the same chance as winning the lottery without buying a ticket.

"I suppose not," Phil agreed, his expression softening to one that was very nearly tender. Clint stared at him a long while, his head slowly clearing like a swimmer kicking toward the surface. They'd obviously reduced his medication recently. As each minute passed points of awareness seemed to flicker on, blinking to life like the fairy lights that hung on the shabby plastic Christmas tree at the nurses station in the hall.

"Tony," he breathed out finally, the last portions of the battle registering in the jumble of his memory. "Shit, is Tony…"

"Three cracked ribs and a severe concussion," Phil informed. "He'll be fine. Cap and Bruce are with him."

"You should be there," Clint stated. He cringed at the wistful sound of his own voice. Maybe Coulson would pretend not to notice. It was too much to think he hadn't heard.

"It's fine, Barton," Coulson insisted. Clint let himself relax into the too hard mattress with a sigh. Tony was okay, the team was okay, Clint wasn't dead. Overall it was a good day. He drew in a slow sigh of contentment that he couldn't entirely blame on the drugs. His lips smiled of their on volition as he met Coulson's gaze again then ever so slowly, faded, replaced by a concerned frown at what he saw there.

"Phil, is everything ok?" he asked, his brow knitting in worry. Coulson's expression wasn't telling, not on the surface, not to anyone who didn't know the man, who didn't know him the way Clint did.

"You were dead," Phil declared softly, Clint startled at the statement, the last haze of drug induced stupor seeming to burn off in an instant. "Your jet crashed and all of your coms went off line and you were all dead."

"Shit, Phil, I'm sorry," Clint declared cringing. "We called in as soon as we could, I swear we did."

"I know that," Phil stated.

"We thought maybe you'd pick up the beacon signal before it went off line," Clint continued, a frantic feeling squeezing his chest.

"I know," Phil repeated, his eyes misting. Clint flinched, sentimental displays had never been his strong suit. Coulson drew in a shaky breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them he was steady once more, the faint traces of what, for him, had been an emotional outburst now carefully hidden.

"For eighteen hours you and your entire team were dead," Phil stated, his eyes sad. "And I suppose it rattled me a little."

"And when you got us back Tony smashed up his suit and I fell off a building," Clint supplied, the faintest threads of guilt in his tone. Phil's pained expression was almost more than he could bear.

"You said you jumped," Phil pointed out, smiling softly in spite of himself. Clint looked away evasively, his cheeks flushing.

"I totally intended to jump," Clint insisted. Phil let out a soft chuckle.

"Steve told me what happened," He declared softly. Clint dug his teeth into his lip to hold in the string of expletives that threatened to tumble out of his mouth. Coulson only gave him a knowing nod. They were both silent and Clint let his attention drift back to the window. It had started snowing and he shivered without thinking, the memory of winter storms and frostbitten feet still fresh. As missions went, it probably ranked in the top ten of total clusterfucks. If it hadn't been for Hulk they'd have lost Bruce in the wreckage of the quinjet. Clint had stitched Steve's arm back together with the remains of a field medic kit and then they'd marched five miles through a blizzard without coms to blow up an AIM base without their ordnance.

"Not my best Christmas," he declared finally.

"Going by the state you were in when we brought you in, I'd have to agree," Coulson observed, his voice tinged with muted frustration.

"I made it out alive," Clint announced, giving himself a thumbs up.

"It was a near thing," Phil stated, the ghost of a sigh escaping. Clint couldn't help but smile, his eyes lingered over Phil, drinking in the sight of him.

"You have no idea," he admitted. He watched the warm twist of Coulson's lips for a few more moments before forcing himself to look away. Exhaustion tugged at his senses, his body aching without the warm blanket of pharmaceuticals for comfort. He was nearly asleep when he heard Phil clear his throat.

"You know how you're in a situation that you know you can't get out of," Phil's breath hitched and Clint turned to look at him with a frown but there was no sign of distress on Coulson's face. He smiled grimly, looking down at his hands. "You know you're looking at the end, so you make a deal. That one thing you always meant to do, but you just never got around to it, you'll do that if you just make it out the other side."

"Yeah, I know," Clint nodded, his heart squeezing in his chest. He knew all too well. He could almost feel Thor's arm supporting him, pulling him along through the haze of hypothermia, the sense memory of freezing snow hitting his face, the aching stiffness of his hands and feet and the whispered promise to himself that if he got out of this alive…

"I got a second chance after the battle of New York," Coulson observed with a frown. "I didn't take it. I've still left that one thing undone."

"Nobody ever does The Thing, Phil," Clint answered with a sad smile. "It's what we do to stay alive when we shouldn't be able to keep going. We all do it, it's the way this business works. We lie for a living, we'll even lie to ourselves."

"I made myself the same promise today," Phil admitted. "If I could just get you all back." He looked up then, his eyes pained.

"Me too," Clint nodded, a cheeky grin spread across is face. "So we're both liars." Coulson let out a genuine laugh and Clint felt his heart soar in his chest. This one moment was almost worth the misery of the last twenty four hours.

"I have a second, second chance," Phil declared, his eyes soft. "And I don't think I can let it go this time."

"You don't look too happy about that, sir," Clint observed.

"I can't really see how it's not going to blow up in my face," Phil admitted. He hesitated letting out a sigh. "You're probably my best friend, Clint."

"Need a pep talk?" Clint offered with his most glowing smile.

"Maybe," Coulson acquiesced. "I… There's someone I've had… feelings for. For quite a long time now. Someone, more or less, unattainable."

Clint felt his face shutter with a harsh snap but if it was evident in his expression Phil would have missed it. Coulson was once more staring at his hands, his fingers curling in uncharacteristic nervousness. The faintest flush crept over Phil's cheeks and nose as he tried not to smile. Clint was fairly certain a knife between his ribs would have hurt less.

He wasn't an idiot, well, maybe he was. You probably had to be in order to cary a torch for as long as he had. There were a thousand reasons why he'd never acted on his feelings but the greatest was sitting in the cheap chair beside his bed, fidgeting like a school girl with a crush. In all the time they'd known each other Phil had never once looked at him with anything but friendship.

Clint had let himself imagine more there on too many occasions to count, had cherished every fond look, every shared moment of camaraderie. He didn't allow himself to speculate on the object of Coulson's affection, there was no point, but it was evident from the look on Phil's face that whoever it might be, Coulson was hopelessly smitten. The idea that anyone wouldn't want Phil Coulson was laughable. If there was such a person, Clint would be obliged to shoot them for their stupidity. Still, Coulson was right about one thing: Phil was Clint's best friend, the best friend he'd ever had and though Clint didn't honestly believe there was anyone in the world deserving of Phil, it didn't really matter.

Phil deserved to be happy.

"You should tell them," Clint declared with conviction. "The job sucks up all your free time and I can probably think of a dozen other decent reasons to talk you out of it, but you're a good guy, the best, and anyone in their right mind would be thrilled to have you, Phil. You should tell them, Just come out and tell them and… You deserve it. You should go for it."

"Then what do I do the next time I have to lie to myself to keep going?" Phil asked in sad amusement.

"If you have someone waiting for you back home, do you really need to lie?" Clint asked. A warmth filled Coulson's face and he peered up out of the corner of his eye. Clint let his gaze trace the line of Coulson's jaw, memorizing the curl of lips and the soft crease of each laugh line.

He was so distracted he almost missed Coulson's hand hesitantly settling over his own.

"Clint," he began, swallowing nervously.

"Phil?" and his voice did not squeak, it most definitely didn't, and even if it had it was probably the medication that had finally worn off. It was definitely the medication. Phil smiled, hopeful and terrified and he shifted closer to the bed on the rickety plastic chair. He raised his free hand, hesitating a moment before letting his fingers stroke gently though Clint's hair.

"Clint," he declared breathlessly. "I'm… I'm going to kiss you now, unless you tell me not to."

"Can you wake me up first?" Clint asked in an embarrassingly small voice. The heart monitor was chirping out a rapid, uneven rhythm but neither of them paid it any heed. "It's just, I really, _really_ don't want to miss it."

"I can do that," Coulson murmured softly, closing the distance between them.

"Best Christmas _ever_," Clint breathed, leaning into the kiss.


End file.
